


The curious incident on Oxford Street (or, how Crowley acquired a flatmate.)

by orphan_account



Series: Decidedly Odd Encounters [2]
Category: Gods Of London Sequence, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Basically these two meet and it spirals from there, Cool Cars, Disability, Eventual Friendship, Injury and recovery, Mystery, Post-Armageddon’t, Queen - Freeform, Slight twisting of canon, both of them are bastards in thier own right, car crashes, crowley is a suspicious little shit, flatshares, incident, katie has secrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-05-16 19:08:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19324279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: On the night of a bank-holiday Monday, about a year after the world failed to end, Anthony J. Crowley crashed his Bentley into a certain young woman named Katie Sherwood.Everything spiralled from there.





	1. Thunderbolt and lightning, very, very frightening me.

It was a bank-holiday Monday. To an ordinary person, this fact held little significance, but to a certain type of person it made all the difference in the world. Everything important happens on bank-holiday Mondays, because they’re the places where the stitching of Reality has worn thin and ragged at the seams. 

And sometimes, rarely, new Somethings bleed through and into the fabric.

 

Crowley was in his Bentley when it happened, doing a rather respectful 50 miles-per-hour down Oxford Street. It’s late at night, the stars hidden behind the seemingly perpetual veil of fog above London. It was a cold night in midwinter, and the sky was grumbling as if it was considering rain. The radio was off, but he had We Will Rock You stuck in his head, and he hummed almost half-heartedly.

No matter how many times he replaced the cassette deck, it still changed all his classical music into Freddy Mercury’s Greatest Hits. He knew most of the Queen songs off by heart by now, and a treacherous part of him is even beginning to like them.

And then; he’s distracted, and something red blurred his vision for just a second, and-

  
“Agh!”

Crowley flinched and swore as his foot slammed down onto the brake pedal, a second too late as a blur of bright red flashed across the windscreen.

There was a yelp of pain, and a sickening crack, the brutal snap of breaking bone, a high-pitched shriek of pain; all followed by the screech of tires rapidly slowing down from an immense speed. The demon’s hands were clenched, white-knuckled, on the steering wheel.

“Fucking shit.”

There was a gasp from outside, loud and sharp.  
He flung open his door and leapt out of the car, inspecting it for damage. There was a spot of blood on the bumper, and he smelt copper, but the car is relatively unscathed. With a thought, it was clean again.

His first thought is that he’d hit an animal. But no fox or badger lies as roadkill, and-

The breath he didn’t need caught in his throat. There was a groan from somewhere several feet in front of him; he heard fast, shallow, half-sobbing breaths from a hunched figure on the ground. She’d been thrown by the force of the crash- who runs into the road in London at this time of night?- and cradled her arm to her chest; her wrist was bent at an unnatural angle, and it was obviously painful.

Crowley dashed over, caught in that grey limbo between between fear and horror, sinking to his knees beside the young woman.

Hell, she couldn’t’ve been much older than eighteen or nineteen.

“Bless it.” He said. “Shit! I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

She sat up shakily and took a ragged breath. Her voice was quiet; her accent distinctly south-English, a clear and soft Wiltshire burr edged with London cut-glass.

“Does it bloody look like it?!” She snapped, eyes glazed in shock. “I’m at least ninety percent sure I’ve broken a rib, thanks very much!”

He got a closer look at her through his sunglasses. Her pupils were uneven; she obviously had a severe concussion, and the red coat she wore was stained dark with blood and dirt. It was a bright scarlet beneath the dark patches, a colour too reminiscent of War to be at all comforting.

“Do you need to go to A-and-E?”

“Nah.” She said, slowly shaking her head. “Can’t. No hospitals. The NHS has screwed up far too much. Have you seen the waiting times these days?”

And with that offhand remark, she fainted dead away into Crowley’s arms.


	2. I’m just a poor boy, I need no sympathy

Crowley doesn’t want to think about it. He resolutely _does not_ , and is perfectly willing to derail that train of thought, throw it off a cliff, and then burn the wreckage. 

Just to be on the safe side. 

 

So he drives instead, in stony silence, and tries to think about Not Thinking. 

 

The person he’d hit lies, slumped, across the back-seat, and it’s a testament to how panicked he was that he hadn’t even thought about throwing a blanket down. If blood gets into the upholstery, it’ll be his own godblessed fault. 

 

She’s alive. _Just_. And Crowley drives deeper on into the night, into the heart of London, his fingers crossed. He’s floating somewhere in the fuzzy grey pre-dawn dullness, lost in the middle of that Bermuda Triangle of guilt, fear and resignation.

 

He won’t let her die, not if he can help it, but there’s not a lot he can do.

No miracles. 

 

Hell still metaphorically had him by the ear. If they found out he’d done Good, he’d probably be forced to take another holy-water bath; this time, fatal. 

 

In short, Crowley was very worried, very scared, and about ten seconds away from a panic attack. 

 

A slight stirring as he stopped for a red light. He ignored it. The nearest hospital... 

 

There was a soft mumble. “No hospitals,” the girl said, and shifted with a short gasp of pain, falling back into oblivion. 

 

Crowley took the next turning, glancing at his wristwatch, before speeding up slightly and heading back into Mayfair. 

 

Somewhere, a clock struck one. 


End file.
